In Which Sherlock Knits And Other Tales of 221B
by Reason to Scatter
Summary: In which Sherlock has ruined another of John's jumpers and decides to replace it. Except he decides on a whim to make the replacement himself. With a little education from Mrs Hudson, he manages to...knock something together...Now a series of oneshots centered around the ship that will outlive God Himself trying to become canon.
1. In Which Sherlock Knits

**A/N: So um Johnlock is the most perfect pairing in the world. Yeah. So I've been writing a great deal for it and I'm uploading stuff here. It's already on my tumblr, but hey, who cares? **

**I privately think of this first story as "The Crappy Jumper of Love/Rejection", but I somehow feel that's not quite professional enough for The New FF dot Net. So instead...have a stupid title.**

**I don't own Sherlock, from Sir ACD's canon onwards. None of it. My stuff is based on the BBC adaptation, but I will probably be chucking in canon references if possible...ehehehe.**

**EDIT: This is actually going to be a series of Johnlock oneshots and drabbles!  
**

* * *

Sherlock was bored.

This wasn't exactly an unusual state of affairs-in fact, the day the consulting detective wasn't bored would probably be the day England would fall.

No cases demanded his immediate attention, and he supposed it must simply be a peaceful week; surely the idiots at Scotland Yard hadn't suddenly become competent. Things like that didn't just happen. Intelligence didn't grow on trees, after all. Nevertheless, what would make most people sleep safer in their beds was nearly enough to make Sherlock weep from boredom.

None of his experiments needed tinkering with-or rather, could stand tinkering with at their stage- and he wasn't about to get up and fetch supplies for a new project. That would entail getting up, and in this fit of boredom-which, most emphatically, was _not_ sulking, thank you very much-he was simply too lethargic to get up and go out. Even if he decided to forgo dressing and simply walk the streets in his bedsheet (he'd kill to see Mycroft's reaction when he saw that on his precious, omnipresent CCTV, but the prospect wasn't quite entertaining enough to make it worthwhile). And John-for whatever silly reason-absolutely refused to pop around to the morgue and snatch some body parts.

"You can't expect me to go down to St Bart's like it's Tescos and steal you bits of corpses, Sherlock," he'd said most emphatically.

Probably asking John to steal him any supplies from his surgery wouldn't go over any better.

_(This understanding of, respect for, normal social conventions is so very dull, and yet John firmly believes he can do better and so he will, because he is Sherlock Holmes and he does not fail)_

So experiments were out of the question. The gun was hidden-by John, of course. No doubt he could deduce its location quickly enough, but that was far too much effort for the scant amusement of putting a few more holes in the wall and receiving another tongue-lashing from Mrs Hudson or his irksome, mundane, pedestrian flatmate.

Nicotine patches. He was trying to quit again, on John's urging, of course. The need wasn't yet so bad that he had to flail about the room searching for them, but he could feel the desire coursing through his blood. No. Transport, nothing more. His mind was superior to his body. He could do this.

_(He doesn't believe this but John thinks he can, the man has an astonishing amount of faith in him) _

And John, the utter imbecile, wasn't even around to make up for his blocking Sherlock's entertainment by at least trying to ease the boredom. The sheer insolence was staggering. How could anyone think that treating idiots for the same illnesses day after day was a valuable way to spend time?

Bored. _Bored_.

Sherlock's eyes roved around the room, alighting on objects and flickering away as soon as he'd processed what it was and what possible entertainment value it might have.

Telly. Dull.

Radio. Tedious.

(John's) laptop. John hadn't had a new girlfriend in weeks (Sherlock privately suspected that his reputation preceded him among the eligible women in his social circle) so there would be no new atrocious attempts at poetry to shake his head and chuckle over.

_**BORED.**_

A completely random object: his eyes settled on one of John's jumpers, flung to the floor after he'd mopped up a particularly…volatile reaction with it. He should probably consider tossing that before John came back from the surgery. The last row they'd had had been over a similarly-destroyed jumper.

_(Sentiment? Over a piece of clothing? A gift from family, obviously, probably not the sister he's estranged from. A parent, then, given how well it fits his current measurements-not close to any extended family, or doesn't have any. Still a silly thing to argue over)_

John hadn't spoken to him for days.

_(Peculiar: he minds, is upset, even, when John gives him the silent treatment, yet would welcome it from anyone else. Should investigate this further. With caution, however: sentiment is a defect found on the losing side)_

And then an idea strikes him. A glorious idea that is at once simplicity itself and yet absolute genius too-naturally, all his ideas are perfect.

He will knit John a new jumper. Not only will it prevent another dose of John ignoring him, but John will be so overwhelmed he will have to give Sherlock his gun and his patches back out of sheer gratitude. Surely John's face as he receives such a gift-something that Sherlock deigned to make for him-will be endlessly intriguing in and of itself.

_(John makes the most interesting faces when he's surprised or startled)_

Obstacle: Sherlock doesn't know the first thing about knitting. Useless information; waste of hard drive space. This is easily conquered; Sherlock has _resources_. With a goal in mind, he summons up the energy to spring from the couch and go about finding clothing more respectable than the blue dressing gown he's currently wearing: shirt, purple, jeans, black. He debates the coat and scarf: he's just going downstairs. But then he often wears them around the flat. He's not trying to look cool, he's just _cold, _no matter what John thinks.

The building was, for once, warm enough he didn't need the extra layers. He bounded downstairs-really, he was quite exuberant once he's taken a thought into his head and decided not to dismiss it-and peeked into the café for Mrs Hudson. She was there, naturally: always was, at that time of morning.

_(Table close to the window, but facing inwards rather than enjoying the view, nice dress-too dressy for a simple breakfast- some of her older, higher-class jewelry on, constant glancing at the proprietor who's currently fixing her usual breakfast and then back down to an unstarted crossword: she's still got a bit of a crush on him then)_

Unimportant. He crossed to her table and sat down without an invitation.

"Good morning, Sherlock," she said, looking once more at the man making her food before meeting Sherlock's eyes. Her kindly expression seemed a favorable omen for what he was about to ask. "Did you need something? Is the hot water off?"

"Mrs Hudson, I need to know how to knit."

This was probably the last thing she expected to hear from him, especially with as much intensity as his voice contained. She stared at him for a moment with a startled expression.

_(Note: modulate enthusiasm when speaking to Mrs Hudson)_

The housekeeper, however, was quick at recovering, as she had to be to rent a flat to the likes of Sherlock Holmes, and the shock soon became a knowing expression. "Is John's and your anniversary coming up, dearie?"

_(She, like the rest of London, still believes in the notion that John and I are romantically engaged, then. Ridiculous and untrue, but unimportant at the moment)_

"That is sweet, that you want to hand make something," she continued, smiling at him. "I never would have guessed it of you, Sherlock, but I suppose everyone's at least a bit romantic at heart. What is it you want to knit him, dear?"

Unlike John, Sherlock never bothered to correct anyone's assumptions about the two of them. It was none of their business, and anyway, he didn't care what others thought-it didn't affect the work, it didn't _matter_.

"I want to make a jumper," he stated. "One that's not hideously coloured."

Doubt flashed in her eyes. "Are you sure, dearie? That's an awfully big project for a beginner."

Sherlock huffed. "I think I can manage."

"All right then, dear, I'll teach you. I'll come by after breakfast with what we'll need."

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson," he said, and, standing up, straightened his jacket. There was a spate of tittering behind him. As he turned to go back outside, he examined the source-not out of interest, but habit.

_(Teenage girls on the far side, clearly cutting school given their bags and tense shoulders-not accustomed to rulebreaking then, they're afraid they'll get caught. They're looking at me, pupil dilation evident-they find me attractive. Oh, that one's snapping a picture-iPhone, latest model: wealthy family or recent birthday. Uniforms, well-made, and designer bags. In that case, a private school, that means wealthy family. Probably a friend then, one who's less willing to defy the rules, but she's fine with receiving illicit picture texts while in class-)_

"Are you sending it to Jeremy?" one of them whispered-unintentionally loudly- to the girl with the phone.

_(Jeremy. A male)_

There was always something.

He went back out and returned to the flat. By the time Mrs Hudson came up with a large bag of the esoterica of knitting, he'd hidden the discolored and partially-melted jumper and thrown a blanket (his, not John's: if he was going to try and make up for the other jumper he wasn't going to do it halfway) over the experiments on the kitchen table.

It was rough going at first, the counterintuitive movements and the yarn conspiring to tangle and make him drop stitches, but soon-with Mrs Hudson's guiding hands helping him -Sherlock was proceeding smoothly within half an hour.

The jumper consumed his time for days, spooling into weeks. Every morning after John departed for the clinic, Sherlock would retrieve the project from where he'd stashed it (his room, in the drawer of the bedside table, and then in the closet after it got too big for the little drawer) and start working furiously.

Finally, the day came when it was finished. Sherlock held it up, ignoring a chime from his phone-a case, probably a dull case, he'd look later- and examined it with a critical eye-and frowned. Yes, he'd worked hard…but it was an atrocious piece of knitting.

_(Dropped stitches, places where he'd knit through the yarn-how had he not caught that?-there were holes where he'd wrapped the yarn around the needle accidentally and broke the pattern, and there were several odd patches where the tension was off and the yarn was stretched too loose)_

This simply was not acceptable. There was no way he was going to let John see this. It was mistake-riddled and awful and absolutely not going to see the light of daylight ever again.

_Creak_. Sherlock's eyes widened: that was the stairs. He shoved the jumper _(more appropriate word: rag) _under the blanket, but it was too late. The door had already opened.

_(No knock means John)_

The instant, force-of-habit deduction was unnecessary. John had already stepped inside, a sour expression on his face and clutching his shoulder.

"Some strung-out kid took a swing at me," he informed Sherlock. "He dislocated my shoulder. It's all right now, but they sent me home for the rest of the day." He glanced at the lump where the detective had concealed his work. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said snappishly, and lay down, rolling so that he faced the back of the couch. He'd really meant to do something nice, and it'd come out horribly. This 'caring' lark really wasn't all that great.

Something in his tone must have alerted the other man, though, because John walked over and stuck his hand under Sherlock's long legs and into the blanket. Sherlock rolled over as he retrieved the jumper and glared at him as he answered the unspoken question on John's face.

"I ruined another of your sweaters, so I decided to replace it," he said. "I was bored anyway, so I decided to experiment with knitting." He indicated the awful consequence of that decision with a wave. "The results were disappointing. I'm still bored. You may bin it if you like."

"I don't think I will."

Sherlock sat up and staredat him. "Why on earth not? It's awful."

_(He's grinning; probably about to make a joke at my expense. No. That's a different smile; this is the one that touches his eyes and makes his whole face light up, the same smile he gets when he's calling my deductions 'brilliant' or 'fantastic', or when he's talking to the latest face in his string of women. What on earth is he so happy about?)_

"Because," John started pulling his beige jumper off over his head-the shirt underneath rode up with it, exposing some of the doctor's belly- "I'm not in the habit of binning things that other people make specifically for me. It's a bit not good to do things like that." Gingerly, as if he were actually concerned about tugging the yarn apart, he replaced the beige with Sherlock's poor product.

"I never said it was for you," Sherlock said, but at the wryly doubtful look John directed at him, he conceded. "Nevertheless, your deduction was correct. You may be less of an idiot than I thought."

"Thanks. I think." John examined a patch of loose loops in the sleeve. "I like it," he said. "It's…different."

"It's awful," Sherlock reiterated. "Look at all the dropped stitches."

"Fine, it's awful. I still appreciate it."

He was about to ask, _do you really? Why?_ when his phone chimed again. Without even being asked, John picked it up off the table and handed it to him before flopping into his customary armchair and looking at him expectantly.

"It's Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Body in a room locked from the inside, no windows. Dull."

"Sherlock, you haven't had a case in days," John said, slightly exasperated. "By now even a dull little case like this should be acceptable."

"I rank it a four at the highest, John. That's not worth leaving the flat for."

"Maybe not now, but what if there is something interesting and you miss it because you thought the case was too boring to take?"

He couldn't argue with that…and he was getting rather tired of 221B's walls. "Fine. I'll have to get dressed."

"Yes, a blue dressing gown strikes me as a bit inappropriate for a crime scene."

Sherlock gave him a quelling look. "No more so than a bedsheet in Buckingham Palace." The memory sent John into a fit of the giggles, and Sherlock couldn't help chuckling a bit-all right, a lot-himself. The laughter went on for a while, as every time they caught each other's eyes, they dissolved into helpless mirth again.

"Text Lestrade that we're on our way," Sherlock gasped out at last, before stepping into his room. When he came out properly attired, John was still punching away at the keys. "I suppose it stands to reason that your typing skills carry over to your texting."

"If you'd sent it yourself, you wouldn't be complaining."

He let that pass, but when John stood up as though ready to dash out…

"Aren't you going to change?"

The doctor looked confused. "Change? Why?" Sherlock gestured to indicate the jumper. "Oh. No, I'm not. I'm going to wear it out."

"Aren't you worried people will talk?"

"As you've said yourself, they do little else. Besides, it's already on, no point in changing now. Most likely they'll just assume it was a gift from a niece or something."

_(John doesn't mind wearing it. This realization provokes an interesting reaction: a sensation like a bubble of warmth inside of his chest. Sentiment. A defect of the losing side, yes; however, this is pleasant, and Sherlock thinks maybe it's okay to trust John with his sentiment, because John has proven his loyalty-his own sentiment-time and time again)_

The silence in the cab wasn't awkward at all. John wasn't trying to fill the silence, as he usually did; Sherlock wasn't sure whether he really appreciated that or not. For whatever reason, the doctor's chatter and inane questions barely bothered him, even though anyone else's would infuriate him.

The case was simple: lethal neurotoxin dispersed by a clever little sprayer hidden in the victim's pillow. As she'd shifted in her sleep, it'd released the gas, and finally the dosage had become fatal. The police had ignored the sprayer, assuming it was an aromatherapy setup, but Sherlock hadn't.

_(Scent of almonds: not almond essence, but bitter almond oil, with high concentrations of cyanide-deadly as hell in any quantity. Who could obtain it? Lover: a chemist who also dabbles in aromatherapy and related subjects. She was about to break it off, he resented the prioritization of her husband, he killed her out of ego. How banal)_

"You enjoyed that one, didn't you," John said. It wasn't a question; Sherlock had actually clapped his hands together upon discovering the method of the murder.

"It was certainly creative," Sherlock allowed. "I'll concede that it was worth leaving the flat for."

And then there it was: a mutter, a stage-whisper easily audible from the hall.

"Shouldn't have let him leave, in that thing." He didn't even have to turn around.

"Freak was probably the one who made it, look at those patches of dropped stitches. Horrid."

_(Donovan, making an aside to Anderson. Talking about John's jumper/jumper I made for John. Probably spawned by resentment and frustration over missing such an obvious detail. Still. I made that for him. I did. Petty snideness: will this ruin the effect it had on John? No. Must not happen, must not be allowed to happen)_

Sherlock stiffened, but John was already whirling. "That's enough," he said quietly to the pair-quietly, yes, but not gently: he was using the no-nonsense tone he used on murderers _(when they threaten Sherlock) _and when he was trying to explain to Sherlock the necessity of labeling fridge containers or not declaring how much a case was entertaining him in mixed company. "Sherlock was trying to do something nice, and I appreciate it. You two _idiots _are just looking for anything you can say after he's embarrassed your investigation and it's stupid and petty and I am tired of your lack of gratitude."

_(John is defending the jumper-my actions. Another curious feeling: what, exactly, it is I'm not sure, but it is also pleasant)_

Neither Yarder answered, and Sherlock, despite the fact that he was still facing the dead woman on the bed, could see the glare the doctor was giving them as vividly as though he were on the receiving end. With a cough, he straightened his jacket.

"If that's all, then we're going. Honestly, missing that, it's embarrassing, Lestrade. Good afternoon." He brushed past shell-shocked Donovan and Anderson in the hall.

_(Yes, how surprising, milk-mild Doctor Watson blowing up suddenly, and in defense of me, even-the freak, the psychopath, the unlovable human being.)_

He smiled.

On the cab ride home, he decided to broach the subject about halfway through: John was looking oddly thoughtful, and the expression of contemplation on his friend's face roused Sherlock's curiosity.

"John. What you said, to Anderson and Donovan. That was, it was very good." He hesitated for a moment. "Thank you."

"I don't like them calling you a freak. You do good work, and they should learn to thank you for it."

"I don't do it for thanks, John."

"Yes, I know, but you deserve them-not insults and names. You're, you're this great genius, and they're just being spiteful because you catch things they overlooked." Sherlock was silent for a moment, caught off guard by the praise-somehow different than what John usually said in that it was delivered as solemnly, as matter-of-factly, as a diagnosis of a patient. John continued, "You did something nice, _decent_, and no matter how awful this jumper is, it's the thought that counts."

"Sentiment." Sherlock grinned as he said it, though, to let the other man know he was only joking. "It really is horrid, though, look, the sleeve's pulling apart. You caught it on something."

"I think it was the doorknob as we left."

For no particular reason, this struck Sherlock as somehow hilarious, and for the second time that day, he-and after a moment, John-collapsed into helpless laughter, and this time it was over something that really wasn't terribly amusing.

_(Nervous tension? What are we nervous over? Am I nervous? Sentiment. Defect. But I already decided that I will allow sentiment for John, who can be trusted. This feeling, beating-wings-in-stomach, is not entirely pleasant. What is this impulse?)_

"John," Sherlock said, succeeding in keeping any hint of his mental turmoil out of his voice, "there is an experiment I should like to perform."

"Right, and what would that be?"

In answer, Sherlock leaned over and pressed his lips lightly against John's. The doctor tensed up for a moment-predictable- but then relaxed into it. He could feel John's smile form against his lips, making the swooping feeling in his chest and belly intensify dizzyingly. That_ hadn't _been expected. He pulled back and examined the other man closely.

"What was that about, exactly?" John said, looking slightly discomfited.

"I'm not entirely sure," Sherlock said. "However, it seems that the curious sensations I've been experiencing since you decided to wear the jumper are magnified by your touch. Interesting."

John gave him a look-the 'Sherlock-you-are-being-incredibly-dense' look that usually meant he'd said something 'insensitive'. "Sherlock, if you're trying to say you're in love with me-"

"That's not what I'm saying at all!" Sherlock protested, then stopped to think. "As far as I'm aware."

"Oh, for Chrissakes-here, how about I conduct a little experiment." He pulled the consulting detective back over and kissed him furiously.

After he'd released him, Sherlock leaned back, his lips feeling slightly swollen. "I thought you weren't gay," he said, more out of a need to make conversation-to _not _have literally been snogged speechless-than any real question. Nevertheless, John chose to answer.

"I'm not," he said. "It's just _you_, you fantastic, insufferable dick."

_(A completely unique sentiment in John, reserved only for me. I am the only one that will ever receive this sort of affection: I am his exception) _

There was nothing to describe how lovely that thought was in Sherlock's mind. He immediately archived it for future retrieval, to always be kept safe and fresh and sharp.

_(All my sentiment is yours, John. Every last grain of sympathy and affection is entrusted to you, who does not exploit the defect in me. Perhaps there's something to this caring lark after all)_

Not that he'd ever say that last-out loud, anyway. It would mean admitting he'd been wrong. However, in his mind, a thousand little ways to _show _John were already being planned.

He glanced over at John again. Really, though: No more knitting for him.

It was boring.

* * *

**This fic is dedicated to Gillypad on Tumblr, for letting me bounce ideas off her. Gilly, we really do share a brain. I still want to know how the hell you knew I was wearing the hat. You're in _Canada_!**

**_Please don't be pulling a Mycroft please don't be pulling a Mycroft..._  
**


	2. In Which John is Concerned

**A/N: I'm not entirely sure why I decided to make this a oneshot collection type deal-oh right it's for motivation to actually finish all these stories. I have had 5 documents open for days now and haven't worked on them at all. **

**So this story was a bit inspired by a certain Pon and Zi comic (I love Pon and Zi so much~) featuring the line "Can you get the plague from loving someone too much?" Naturally my brain jumped right over to Johnlock and Sherlock's issues and inexperience with sentiment. Also, the canon story The Dying Detective may have played a slight role in the formation, although not really because there's no case on.  
**

**God. That story was almost worse than The Final Problem. I _hate _contagion; plagues are like my worst phobia. Like in that movie Outbreak. Watched that once for school and it scared the HELL out of me.  
**

**Apologies if John's out of character, I really don't know him as well as I know Sherlock.  
**

**This particular piece is set sometime before Irene reveals her non-death.  
**

* * *

"John, you're a doctor. Are you absolutely certain one cannot acquire the plague from too much sentiment?"

It took John a minute to snap out of the peaceful half-doze he'd fallen into. Sherlock hadn't spoken all day outside of a few bouts of coughing, after unceremoniously staggering into the den and collapsing onto the sofa. Apparently the consulting detective had come down with a touch of the flu.

He was more surprised than he should have been; Sherlock tended to give the impression that all normal ailments were somehow beneath him, but John _knew_ his flatmate was just as human as anyone else, and running around everywhere during flu season-it was a wonder it hadn't happened earlier.

Of course he'd managed to catch it on John's day off from the surgery. He'd been looking forward to it all week-one day, one solitary day without seemingly every sick, possibly-cranky hypochondriac in London needing to be told they just had the flu and were unlikely to die, and then Sherlock-who was definitely cranky- had to come down with it. Needless to say, John had resigned himself to having a very unpleasant day; the silence had come as a nice surprise.

"No," John said, a bit surprised; this was Mr 'Married-to-My-Work' himself, who'd decided emotions were the grit on the lens and scorned them in favor of cold logic. What was he doing, asking about sentiment? "Didn't realize she'd made that much of an impression," he added, probing, carefully offhanded, because that night had been a danger night and because Sherlock hadn't seemed quite…himself since then, but he'd never say anything himself that might give any 'weakness' away of his own accord.

Sherlock made a vaguely dismissive-sounding grunt. "Hardly. Nonentity."

"Oh, really?" He was still a bit concerned, but now his curiosity was piqued as well. "Who's got you asking something as ridiculous as that, then?"

Rather than answering, Sherlock burst into a heavy fit of spluttering coughs racking his slender frame. John was up and over at his side in an instant.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, calm down, breathe-"

As he thrashed around-Christ, did he have to take everything to extremes?-Sherlock clawed at the hand John had half-extended towards him before thinking twice. He scrabbled once over the back of John's hand, then clamped his fingers tight around his wrist and stilled.

A moment passed, a few heartbeats, before Sherlock released him, sprang up from the sofa with energy he hadn't shown all day, and headed towards his room, apparently completely recovered.

"Hang on," John said. "You can't be well yet, lie back down."

The small grin Sherlock turned on him certainly didn't look like an expression any sick man would have. "I wasn't actually sick, John," he said airily. "Just testing a theory."

"What theory was that, then?" John said, a bit miffed that he was being experimented on again-although he supposed he was grateful that it didn't involve drugs.

Sherlock's smile turned enigmatic, and that was all the answer John got; but later that night (three a.m again, _Christ_, he had work that morning) he heard the violin singing the first cheerful-sounding piece Sherlock had played in a long time.


	3. In Which Astronomy is Not a Waste

**A/N: HAHAHAHA I TOTALLY PLANNED TO UPLOAD THIS LAST NIGHT AND COMPLETELY FORGOT. I should warn you, I'm horribly bad at deadlines and things...so I probably won't be making a regular update schedule for this. **

**It'll be one of those Composer-damned fics that update like ninjas with no warning whatsoever (unless you're following my Tumblr and I'm whining about writing again, ahem). I am so sorry. I_ truly_ appreciate every follow and review you guys give me-the email showing up on my phone in the middle of the day/night is guaranteed to make me smile, no matter where I am. I love you guys.  
**

**Anyway, this story jumped into my head with the Perseid meteor shower. Sadly, it was cloudy where I am and I didn't get to see it, but this story made a nice escape for that. Also, I was listening to the song Glad You Came the whole time I was writing this. It's just _perfect_ for Sherlock and John's relationship, even just platonically-their worlds will never be the same, ever, ever again.  
**

**This will probably see edits later. Possibly even a proper ending.  
**

* * *

Sherlock hadn't expected to see what he did upon returning home from a (disappointingly obvious) burglary case.

(_One of those ratty blankets Mrs Hudson gave us last winter, folded under a medium sized wicker basket. Basket's impression in the fabric indicates it's already packed with something. From the smell, there's takeaway in there, Chinese, the shop down the road. But it's dark already. Taking a date on a midnight picnic, then)_

"I feel compelled to inform you that if you're taking her to a park, you'll want to carry your gun," Sherlock informed John as the latter came out of the kitchen with two thermoses-probably tea-in his hands. "There are unsavoury types out and about at this hour."

(_Not to imply John is unable to defend himself or a companion, he certainly is that, but it would be safest for him to have it_)

"Hello to you too, you berk," John said, crouching to put the thermoses in the basket. "I'm well aware of those types, I run around with you, remember? And this isn't actually a date. I've got something to show you." He stood back up with the basket and threw the blanket at Sherlock. "C'mere."

Curious now, Sherlock followed John upstairs and to the roof exit, clambering through and, under the other man's direction, spreading the quilt out so they had a decent place to sit. For his part, John opened the basket and started setting containers out.

(_Beef with broccoli, salt and pepper chicken-that's his-two orders of spring rolls, the ones with the chicken, both beef and duck curry…He's trying to get me to make up for the past few days of cases with a great deal of protein) _

He felt a sudden surge of affection for John. Nobody else bothered to make sure he ate-Lestrade might pester him every so often after particularly long, drawn-out cases, but that wasn't the same as what John did: make the order himself because he knew Sherlock wouldn't, look after his physical needs because he was well aware that Sherlock couldn't care less about what he deemed 'transport'.

Sherlock wondered why they were on the roof.

(_It's dark. Something to do with the sky? Is this going to be another of those tedious solar system lessons that I'll just have to delete after?_)

He didn't have enough data to guess. "Why are we out here?" he asked, accepting a box of the beef with broccoli and a pair of chopsticks from John.

"Look up," John said, jerking his chin-quite unnecessarily, Sherlock knew which way was up-at the sky. He did so-and a moment later, saw: a streak of light, tinted with blue, overhead.

(_Meteors! Colour indicates a layer of copper in its makeup, currently being ionized due to its high-friction passage through the atmosphere)_

"It's the Perseid shower," John said, and out of the corner of Sherlock's eye, he could see that John was also looking up. "I know you don't really care about astronomy, but you said you appreciate it, and I figured you wouldn't know about this happening tonight-this week, really."

A few more stars-(_no, they're not actually stars, they are the visible path of meteoroids crossing the atmosphere_) shot across the sky before Sherlock answered.

"It's lovely."

John grinned at him, and Sherlock couldn't help returning the smile. "Brilliant, yeah? I used to make a point of watching it every year, got out of the habit…"

"What reminded you?" Sherlock asked, because the reason John had stopped was evident in his frown.

"Saw a news piece on it-before you burned the newspaper, you berk. I thought it might be fun to come up here."

They ate in companiable silence for a little while, watching the lights flash across the sky; then John pointed out a particularly purple one. "What does that?"

"Potassium," Sherlock answered, without having to think. "It's the heat, pulling off electrons, a basic chemical reaction."

John laughed. "Knew I could count on you. Pass me the curry, will you?"

Sherlock did, and John took it, and if their hands brushed a little longer than necessary, that was just an accident.

(_Though it's certainly pleasant. John's hand is very warm, nice up here in the breeze_)

And that was quite enough of that line of thought. "John," Sherlock said, his voice catching a little, "thank you. For all this." He waved at the (mostly eaten now) food and the sky.

"I'm glad you appreciate it," John said. "Instead of telling me it's a waste of brain space and flouncing back inside."

"I do not _flounce_."

"Yeah, you do."

Sherlock scowled at him for a moment, but after a few moments, he couldn't hold back the mirth at John's expression. As soon as he started giggling, so did John. In a few moments, they'd both laughed themselves breathless and fallen back on the blanket, to just stare up at the sky.

(_This is very, very good, nothing on a case but still, a nice runner-up, and do people actually wish on these things? Why do they? Large blocks of minerals hurtling through space do not have the power to bend reality and make wishes come true_)

"Before you open your mouth and ruin the moment, I'm just going to tell you I did make a wish and you can just be quiet," John speaks up.

"What did you wish for?" Sherlock says, because he's not going to just shut up.

"I can't tell you, it won't come true otherwise."

_It won't come true anyway, it's a prayer uttered to a piece of metal, _Sherlock wanted to say, but he propped himself up on his elbows and looked at John. "Am I allowed to deduce it?"

"Go ahead and try."

(_John knows I won't just let an unanswered question sit. Very well. Still relaxed, but focused, did not have time to slip off into a fantasy about something else. Therefore his wish involved this, friendship, bond, whatever this is we have. No immediate problems, nothing that would leap to mind in the time he had to wish. Therefore, it's not a wish for me to change or be easier to live with. Sentiment, then)_

"You…don't want what we have to change," he guessed.

"Close, not quite it," John said. Sherlock frowned.

(_John's sentiment usually channels itself into caring, protecting, nurturing. Would shoot a man for me, makes me eat, denies me my patches even when I'm irritable with the withdrawal-oh)_

He couldn't speak for a moment. "You don't want to lose me?" Sherlock finally said, his voice trembling a bit.

"How did you-that's brilliant, I didn't think you'd actually get it," John said. "Yeah, that's it."

"You don't have to think at a meteor to get that wish, John," Sherlock told him. "I'm not about to _leave_."

"Good."

* * *

_**Clearly this was before Reichenbach~**_


	4. In Which Obvious is Subjective

**A/N: A WILD UPDATE APPEARS OUT OF THE TALL GRASS!**

**Actions: Use FF dot net | Run  
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**READER used FF dot net!  
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**READER caught the wild UPDATE!  
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**So the basic idea's probably been done before, but I really wanted to have a go at it and so this happened. On another, unrelated note, Hold My Hand by New Found Glory is basically my ultimate Johnlock, John-to-Sherlock song. Go look it up right now. (I'll tell you my Sherlock-to-John ultimate song and maybe even Reichenbach songs later possibly)  
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**Since school just started (MY DAY IS THE ULTIMATE SHERLOCK DAY, especially my Forensics class) updates will be even more unpredictable than I warned last time. Probably. I really can't say. This was written entirely in class, so.  
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**There wasn't enough room for the full title of this piece. It's "In Which Sherlock's Definition of 'Obvious' is Much Different than John's" (and anyone else's for that matter, but whatever).  
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"You always correct them."

John's eating lunch and Sherlock's skipping it (again, John wishes he could convince him that food actually helps brain activity but one does not criticize Sherlock Holmes' case-solving methods on pain of a sulk worthy of a five year old with a brain the size of a planet). He chokes a bit on his pasta and splutters, which is a pity because Angelo's cooking is honestly fantastic and deserves to be savoured. After a moment spent valiantly finding his composure so he can swallow, John comes up with a most eloquent reply.

"Huh?"

"When people assume we're…together, you always correct them." Sherlock's eyes are even more piercing than usual. John fights back the urge to quail (this must be what it feels like to be stared at by God, this weighing, judgmental and yet not judgmental at all look) because that would just encourage him.

"Well," he says, breaking eye contact to look back down at his plate, "we aren't together."

"But it's not as though you'll ever convince them," Sherlock persists. "Easier by far to ignore it. People talk, they do little else but gossip, and the truth of the rumours is hardly relevant."

John knows it's coming. He can feel Sherlock's eyes (all-seeing, if not necessarily comprehending all he sees) boring into his head, breaking him down into elements, reassembling those elements into facts he can use. One may as well walk into the arena with head held high in defiance as be dragged in.

"Go ahead," he sighs. "Deduce it, I know you're itching to."

He can just barely imagine the squeak of a child handed a new, long-dreamt-of toy.

"It's not as though you're disgusted by homosexual relationships," Sherlock begins, no preamble-but then he never does. "Your problem with Harry is her drinking, not Clara. It's not a matter of dignity or creed, then. And it isn't me-you've already displayed a remarkable tolerance for me, even fondness. It's reasonable to assume you could handle deepening our bond.

"We've already discussed how useless it is to protest people's assumptions. Rumours never die. Therefore, it's either for my elucidation, or your benefit. Thinking _I_ wouldn't notice is purely ludicrous-"

John has to grin a bit, because yes, thinking Sherlock _wouldn't_ notice something like being in a relationship with his male flatmate is laughable, and the consulting detective's simple knowledge of his own abilities is refreshing when fake modesty is the trend in London and the world. He has no doubt some people would claim they thought there were miscommunications about the whole thing, but never Sherlock.

"So it's for your benefit," Sherlock continues without a pause. "Interesting. You're a heterosexual male; what could you need to repeat a statement like that for? Unless you're not quite as heterosexual as you think…_Ah_."

Even if his eyes are the silver of a falling guillotine blade now, John still can't help but think he's gorgeous with that mouth open in a perfect heart and cheekbones-well, the cheekbones don't really need him to hang any more flowery metaphors on them, to be quite honest.

"It's your mantra," he says, in that light tone where he has the truth, he's just being extremely generous to the mere mortals and sharing it with them. "You say it to remind yourself that no matter how it feels, we aren't _together… _just very close…friends." The way he hesitates over the last word reminds John of correcting him to 'colleague' in front of that slimy twat Sebastian Wilkes, and his heart flutters painfully even though right now it's laid open on Sherlock's dissection table.

He isn't sure what to say, or whether to get angry, dismiss it, or perhaps start looking for alternate lodgings. There's another painful tremor in his chest at the very idea-but then he knew already that that isn't an option, anyway.

While he's reeling, Sherlock sips delicately at his coffee. "Ridiculous, really," he says with a little huff of impatience at, John imagines, the whole idea of sentiment and caring. That one little breath sends him over the edge.

"All right, yes, you've got it, good for you," John snaps, jumping to his feet. He pulls out his wallet and throws down enough to cover his side of the meal. "Yes, I fancy you quite a lot, and I know it's damn stupid of me, because you're-"

"John." Isn't that just typical, being interrupted as if he doesn't really have a right to be upset. He's about to ignore it, but Sherlock keeps going.

"John, sit down, this is completely unnecessary. When I said 'ridiculous,' I meant the fact that you hadn't said anything."

"Well, no, I wouldn't, would I?" John demands, not sitting. "After that conversation-" and this is that same booth, too, he realizes.

Sherlock is giving him that pitying look he uses when people (who aren't Anderson) are being particularly thick.

"Didn't you ever think the answer might've changed?" His voice is full of blank incomprehension, as though it's perfectly reasonable for someone to declare that they're married to their work and then just change their mind. John tells him as much.

"That was before," Sherlock says dismissively.

"Before what?"

"_Before_." John's about to complain about the sheer mysteriousness of that answer when Sherlock locks eyes with him and something passes between them, one of those little unspoken exchanges that happen on a nearly daily basis.

_Before_: before the chase and the abandoned cane, before the dead cabbie-cum-serial killer; before a date forgotten to save a friend (and all the abandoned dates since); before the pool, before another wordless conversation-"yes, you can have my life, I'm putting it in your hands, it's worthless without you anyway."

Before all of that. John finds himself smiling.

"So has it changed?"

"Obviously," Sherlock replies. He picks up John's money and hands it back to him, then lays down his own and rises. "Let's go home. You look as if you're in shock. I believe you need a blanket."

If, as the gleam in his eye promises, this blanket has miles of limbs inclined to wrap around things and soft-looking dark hair he can twine his fingers in, John can't say he thinks this is a bad idea at all.

* * *

**I need a Sherlock blanket...but my Gryffindor Quidditch blankie will have to suffice. I can't stand writing in present tense...also this is disappointingly short given how many pages it took up in my notebook. 12! AND I WRITE SMALL!**

**Clearly I don't own Sherlock, from ACD to BBC to RDJ (and Jude, but that'd spoil the trend I got going).  
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**Don't forget to review! Your follows make me smile, but your reviews make me smile AND help me improve. You want my stuff to get less awful someday, yeah?  
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	5. In Which John Entices Sherlock to Eat

**A/N: Look, a new thing! About time. Anyway, if you heard about the temporary butcher shop that opened up in London to promote the new Resident Evil, you'll know where I got the inspiration for this from. **

**Also, this collection of pure nonsense and silliness is now on AO3 as well. Because...I finally got my freaking invite, yay!  
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It only takes Sherlock five of the seventeen steps to 221B's doorstep to deduce that someone's carrying something up. By the time he (_he'd think he or she for grammatical precision, but he knows it's a he, why bother_) gets to the door, he knows exactly who it is and how much he's carrying.

(_Slightly irregular gait says John. Could be Mrs Hudson, but John's has lessened noticeably since he moved in and the abnormality is very faint. Besides, she's already been up once this morning and-ah, he didn't bother to knock, definitely John then. He didn't set anything down, means he has a hand free, one bag. Since it didn't bang against the walls, it's not small or compact, it's probably fairly weighty but not big enough to require both hands_)

Sherlock looks up from his experiment to see John carrying-yes-one plastic bag with the quadrangular shape of Styrofoam boxes and the undeniable odour of sandwiches (_fresh bread, cheese, strong mustard; probably some sort of meat considering the other components_).

"Not hungry," he informs John succinctly.

John looked faintly sick as he peers at what Sherlock's doing. "Not sure I am either, now," he says. "Is that a good teacup?!"

"Obviously." Sherlock prods at the large clot in the bottom with a spoon, then adds for clarification, "Snake venom's effects on human blood. I think a first-hand examination might be useful for this current case." Just for emphasis, he repeats, "Case, John, which means I'm not interested in food."

With an effort, John pulls his gaze away from the blood clot in the teacup and sits down across from Sherlock. When he speaks, his tone's deliberately off-hand.

"That's too bad," he says, removing the top box (_marked with a JW: they're very different then if he wants to be so sure to keep them straight_) from the bag. "I did go to all of the trouble of getting you a hand sandwich."

Normally, Sherlock has perfect confidence in his own senses. After all, they are his first and most reliable instruments for analysing the world around him. He doesn't mishear things. Still, there's something terribly incongruous about generally mild-mannered army doctor John Watson casually announcing that his latest attempt to entice Sherlock to eat when he doesn't need to involves cannibalism. He supposes every system must err once.

(_Based on the context and the mistaken word, John most likely said 'ham' instead_)

"I don't see what's so pressing about ham," he sniffs. "The only meats more boring are all poultry."

"Good job I said 'hand', not 'ham', then," John replies. For a few seconds, Sherlock can only blink at him.

(_He opposes the use of body parts for experimentation-at least in the flat-but is perfectly comfortable with the consumption of human flesh?_)

He can't make heads or tails of it.

John grins at Sherlock's agape expression-something he rarely gets to see, let alone cause-and takes out the other box, pushing aside the blood-filled teacup to set it in front of Sherlock. Predictably, it too bears initials: SH, of course.

"There was a butcher shop set up in Smithfield for some publicity stunt," John explains. "It's regular meat, obviously, but they shape it into bits of people-arms, legs, hands, all of that. Since the money goes to charity anyway, I thought I may as well try and get you to eat."

Sherlock opens the container, gritting his teeth at the irritating squeak of the Styrofoam. Inside, there is a bun with fingers hanging over the sides so it looks like the hand is gripping the bottom piece of bread.

By this point, John is already tucking into his own sandwich-a much more normal, non-hand ham sandwich-and doing his best to look casual, but Sherlock can almost feel his eyes boring into him, waiting for his reaction. He picks the sandwich up thoughtfully. The fingers bob limply. It's impossible not to start chuckling, and after a moment, John joins in.

Soon enough suggestions of ways to frighten and irritate the Yard team start flying, fuelling the laughter bubbling out of both of them. A jar full of ears on Sergeant Donovan's desk is John's personal favourite, just because the shop didn't sell eyeballs, but Sherlock contends that leaving a couple of hands on Anderson's desk with a note telling him to practice his fingerprinting would be better. John thinks notes are cheating.

When the laughter finally dies down, Sherlock hefts his hand sandwich again. It'll slow him down, yes-but then there's John, right there, hoping for approval, the only man Sherlock's ever known who really wants to be around him, appreciates his genius and his humour enough to call him "brilliant" instead of "freak".

(_Of course Sherlock doesn't need anyone else's approval, but it's a nice change, John is a nice change and he likes having him there_)

He takes a hesitant bite, chews, swallows. It's ham, of course.

"Not bad hand," he says, arching one eyebrow but otherwise keeping his face deadpan. "As far as hand goes, that is."

"Had a lot of hand, have you?" John inquires with a barely suppressed snicker. Sherlock shrugs-if John doesn't realize how that sounds, he's not going to point it out for him-but then they meet each other's eyes and they're giggling wildly again.

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**Please review! You guys are the very best motivation to keep writing, otherwise I'd never actually write these and just keep them as mental movies playing out in my head. I seriously appreciate everything you guys drop here, and I'd reply to you all to shower you with affection if I weren't so damn shy. I wish you all a fantastic day.****  
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